The bartender winked at Emma as he handed her a Pale Horse Lager. Emma rolled her eyes. She took the familiar, overflowing mug into her hand, and began to turn away.
“What’s gotten into you?” the bartender sarcastically cocked his head at her, aping concern. She turned away without
answering, and put the mug to her lips. The lager tasted the way she expected: flat.
“Excuse me miss, for making a bit of polite conversation!” he said behind her. Emma shoved off.
The bar was as crowded as usual, though just a tad darker. A light bulb in a far corner had flickered off just as her and three crew mates entered. She didn’t think much about metaphors, but if ever there was one for her life at the moment, that light going out might just be it.
Possibly the biggest decision of her life had been made, and here she was with the same people, doing the same thing they did every night of shore leave. They called this a celebration. Emma breathed out expressively and settled into her boredom. A shrug of the shoulders and a slant of the hips as her mates joined a group standing around from a different ship. They were giving her a toast. Or something. She had only caught the end of the premature speech. She rolled her eyes to the bare rafters of the ceiling, and swept the room with a loll of her head.
Just beyond the carousing of the regulars at the close-packed bar were a couple of non-Fleet dock hands. Her auburn curls perked up a moment. Then she recognized a face, and it became a domino effect: acquaintances ticked through her head. They were men that worked for the Sullivan occasionally. Not likely.
The group around her was talking,
“What’s got her so dramatic tonight?”
“She’s always like this. Well, almost always. Tonight’s sort of special, right?”
With that “right,” the boatswain hit her on the shoulder jovially.
“Right,” she smiled dangerously and stared at him, cold. He gave a short laugh, put his mug to his lips, and looked away quickly. A new subject was broached as a rigger joined them from behind her left shoulder. A few fresh mugs were interlaced with his fingers. She used the interjection to glance behind her. A slight, but well-built gentleman of average height was purposefully giving her backwards assets a good once-over.
She turned to her side, still looking at him, and rolled her shoulder back as she placed a meaningful hand on her hip, all-too-casually accentuating her buxom profile. He had the thin, undefined arms of a land-dweller, but that didn’t mean he would not know how to unknot some rigging. Behind her, the boatswain began to comment on her roving eyes, when an errant foot to the shin from another crewmember made him think better of it. The group closed behind her, and turned their eyes blind. She smiled triumphantly, and swung around to make her way over to the gentleman.
He grinned slyly as she approached, and moved away from his own knot of women. Judging from the rough quality of the dirt-covered bunch, she figured she had most competition in the poncho-enclosed gentleman at the man’s elbow. The drunken dandy made himself scarce at the territorial look in Emma’s eye. Her new purpose felt as intoxicating as it did refreshing.
“A flower in a place like this?” He spoke first. Emma was pleased at his candor.
“More like a sea bitch,” she returned with a smirk.
He grinned broadly, then remade his face into something serious, “A salty lass? Just my type! Jack,” he held out an introductory hand. She rolled her eyes, this time teasing exaggeration. Emma took his hand. Strong. Firm. She smirked again, looking up at him through her eyelashes,
“Emma.”
The boys would not have to load their captain’s precious cargo back on the boat until morning. Never being a shy date, Emma spent an hour of the time left on shore buying Jack drinks and trading poorly formed innuendos. Jack was better at it than she was. She was not used to doing this much talking. He didn’t seem keen on leaving his group. The three women and one man were always close at their backs, drinking miserably, and sharing whispered plans of some sort.
Emma grew impatient. She reached over and slid a rough hand down Jack’s front, making sure to land it on his inner thigh.
“Your shirt’s looking rough. Maybe we ought to find you a new one... or you should go without,” She knew how the insinuation sounded: sloppy drunk. Emma was rustier than she thought.
He did not seem to notice, so she decided to try poetry. She was pretty sure poetry was used in seduction sometimes- though she had never needed it. The Captain always left books around the ship. One poetry collection they had stolen from a Lorekeeper stash was his favorite. She tested the waters with one she had memorized,*
“There is a grassy inlet Where your ocean meets your land, a slip that needs a certain kind of vessel, and-”
She stopped. Jack looked uncomfortable. “Well, let’s fucking get to it already,” she thought. Her eyes flashed annoyance. In the most convincing tone she could muster she said,
“Don’t you prefer rockier waters?”
Jack started to laugh, then checked himself. Conflicting emotions crossed his face. Emma tapped the toe of her boot impatiently.
“Yes, of course. It’s just that,” he paused to glance back at his companions, “I promised these guys I would find us passage on a ship,”
“Oh!" Emma laughed, relieve, "No problems there! I can find you a ride,” She grabbed his shoulders and steered him towards the back door of the bar, over zealous. Jack moved easily, if not drunkenly. She murmured in his ear, “Yes, yes, this way, I know just the place: cozy bit of bricks in the back,” Jack tensed slightly, and began to ask about the ship again.
Emma interrupted him, “Don’t you worry about that. The captain will take on anyone I ask," Jack opened the worn door. Emma gave a last glance into the room and added, "He's my fiance." __ *Quote from Hush of the Very Good by Todd Boss, a Minneapolis poet. This poem was included in an edition of Poetry magazine.
“What’s gotten into you?” the bartender sarcastically cocked his head at her, aping concern. She turned away without
answering, and put the mug to her lips. The lager tasted the way she expected: flat.
“Excuse me miss, for making a bit of polite conversation!” he said behind her. Emma shoved off.
The bar was as crowded as usual, though just a tad darker. A light bulb in a far corner had flickered off just as her and three crew mates entered. She didn’t think much about metaphors, but if ever there was one for her life at the moment, that light going out might just be it.
Possibly the biggest decision of her life had been made, and here she was with the same people, doing the same thing they did every night of shore leave. They called this a celebration. Emma breathed out expressively and settled into her boredom. A shrug of the shoulders and a slant of the hips as her mates joined a group standing around from a different ship. They were giving her a toast. Or something. She had only caught the end of the premature speech. She rolled her eyes to the bare rafters of the ceiling, and swept the room with a loll of her head.
Just beyond the carousing of the regulars at the close-packed bar were a couple of non-Fleet dock hands. Her auburn curls perked up a moment. Then she recognized a face, and it became a domino effect: acquaintances ticked through her head. They were men that worked for the Sullivan occasionally. Not likely.
The group around her was talking,
“What’s got her so dramatic tonight?”
“She’s always like this. Well, almost always. Tonight’s sort of special, right?”
With that “right,” the boatswain hit her on the shoulder jovially.
“Right,” she smiled dangerously and stared at him, cold. He gave a short laugh, put his mug to his lips, and looked away quickly. A new subject was broached as a rigger joined them from behind her left shoulder. A few fresh mugs were interlaced with his fingers. She used the interjection to glance behind her. A slight, but well-built gentleman of average height was purposefully giving her backwards assets a good once-over.
She turned to her side, still looking at him, and rolled her shoulder back as she placed a meaningful hand on her hip, all-too-casually accentuating her buxom profile. He had the thin, undefined arms of a land-dweller, but that didn’t mean he would not know how to unknot some rigging. Behind her, the boatswain began to comment on her roving eyes, when an errant foot to the shin from another crewmember made him think better of it. The group closed behind her, and turned their eyes blind. She smiled triumphantly, and swung around to make her way over to the gentleman.
He grinned slyly as she approached, and moved away from his own knot of women. Judging from the rough quality of the dirt-covered bunch, she figured she had most competition in the poncho-enclosed gentleman at the man’s elbow. The drunken dandy made himself scarce at the territorial look in Emma’s eye. Her new purpose felt as intoxicating as it did refreshing.
“A flower in a place like this?” He spoke first. Emma was pleased at his candor.
He grinned broadly, then remade his face into something serious, “A salty lass? Just my type! Jack,” he held out an introductory hand. She rolled her eyes, this time teasing exaggeration. Emma took his hand. Strong. Firm. She smirked again, looking up at him through her eyelashes,
“Emma.”
The boys would not have to load their captain’s precious cargo back on the boat until morning. Never being a shy date, Emma spent an hour of the time left on shore buying Jack drinks and trading poorly formed innuendos. Jack was better at it than she was. She was not used to doing this much talking. He didn’t seem keen on leaving his group. The three women and one man were always close at their backs, drinking miserably, and sharing whispered plans of some sort.
Emma grew impatient. She reached over and slid a rough hand down Jack’s front, making sure to land it on his inner thigh.
“Your shirt’s looking rough. Maybe we ought to find you a new one... or you should go without,” She knew how the insinuation sounded: sloppy drunk. Emma was rustier than she thought.
He did not seem to notice, so she decided to try poetry. She was pretty sure poetry was used in seduction sometimes- though she had never needed it. The Captain always left books around the ship. One poetry collection they had stolen from a Lorekeeper stash was his favorite. She tested the waters with one she had memorized,*
“There is a grassy inlet
Where your ocean meets your land, a slip
that needs a certain kind of vessel,
and-”
She stopped. Jack looked uncomfortable. “Well, let’s fucking get to it already,” she thought. Her eyes flashed annoyance. In the most convincing tone she could muster she said,
“Don’t you prefer rockier waters?”
Jack started to laugh, then checked himself. Conflicting emotions crossed his face. Emma tapped the toe of her boot impatiently.
“Yes, of course. It’s just that,” he paused to glance back at his companions, “I promised these guys I would find us passage on a ship,”
“Oh!" Emma laughed, relieve, "No problems there! I can find you a ride,” She grabbed his shoulders and steered him towards the back door of the bar, over zealous. Jack moved easily, if not drunkenly. She murmured in his ear, “Yes, yes, this way, I know just the place: cozy bit of bricks in the back,” Jack tensed slightly, and began to ask about the ship again.
Emma interrupted him, “Don’t you worry about that. The captain will take on anyone I ask," Jack opened the worn door. Emma gave a last glance into the room and added, "He's my fiance."
__
*Quote from Hush of the Very Good by Todd Boss, a Minneapolis poet. This poem was included in an edition of Poetry magazine.